Spider

The next few pass in a blur though I study each one, each one a depiction of himself.

Spider doing a line off a small mirror.

Spider’s head on a table with a bottle of whiskey next to him.

Raw and real.

I struggle to contain my feelings. I can’t break down here, not when this isn’t really about me. It’s about him.

I come to the end, another self-portrait of him looking into a mirror, his guitar strapped on his back. His hand rakes through his hair and his face is sharp and lean, his eyes open and clear. It’s entitled Recovery.

I wipe at my eyes and head to the restroom just off to the side, avoiding everyone. Standing in front of the sink, I wipe at my face, and once I’ve gotten my mascara straightened out, I wash my hands, still teetering on losing control.

I have to see him. I have to tell him that I don’t care if he can’t say the words, I want to be with him anyway.

I don’t even know he’s followed me into the restroom until I raise my head to grab a tissue.

“Rose.”

I turn to face him, whipping around and sucking in my breath.

He looks incredibly handsome in black slacks and a gray sweater. A leather cuff is on his wrist and a silver necklace hangs around his neck, accentuating his tan skin and the highlights in his dark hair, but it’s his eyes that have most of my attention.

There’s need in them.

“You paid for me to go to college? And Oscar?” I don’t know why those are the first words out of my mouth instead of a compliment about his art, but since Robert handed over the folder, I’ve been in shock.

He gives me a short nod as he leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms.

I shake my head at him, recalling the contents of the folder, the little things that had surprised me. “You made sure I got into the Krav Maga classes even though the waitlist was ridiculous and you even called the owner of Bono as soon as I applied for a job?”

He nods.

I swallow, feeling emotion tearing at me. “I used to wonder why I was so lucky in New York.” I bite my lip. “How did you keep up with me?”

He exhales, his eyes scrutinizing my face, memorizing it. “For a while I had someone watching you periodically . . . nothing intrusive . . . just to make sure you were okay. Robert would keep me updated about things you wanted or mentioned, and I’d try to make it happen for you. It wasn’t anything big.”

“Why not let Robert pay for NYU?” I feel like he would have.

“I wanted to do something for you, Rose. I worked for that money and it was mine. I wanted you to be happy and have your friend with you.” Anguish crosses his face. “I hurt you so much.”

“Why do all this?” I ask, spreading my hands.

He smiles, though just barely, as if it hurts to do anything more. “I think you know why.”

I nod.

His chest expands as his eyes sweep over me, and I know what he sees: a girl who dressed just for him. My dress is pure white, a slinky backless number that clearly shows my tattoo with my long hair up in elaborate curls. The skirt is a ridiculously short bit of tulle that flounces against my thighs when I walk in my silver stilettos.

“You’re beautiful.”

His words are like a balm to my soul.

“Thank you.”

He comes closer and touches my face gently as if he’s afraid I might vanish.

I close my eyes.

God.

I want to be his everything.

I want him to be consumed with me.

I want to be the person who keeps him on the straight and narrow.

I want him to not be able to get out of fucking bed unless I’m next to him.

I want him to crumble if I walk away.

I want him to love me forever.

I say those things to him as tears run down my face.

His face looks broken as he falls to his knees.

“Rose, I’ve been thinking about what you said. It’s always been my intention to get you back someday, but everyone always leaves me,” he says, his voice low. “The day Father dropped me off in Texas, I swore I’d be cold and hard and ruthless for the rest of my days. I swore to never let anyone rip my heart out, but then you came along . . . and I got so fucking lost in you.”

I touch his cheek and he leans into me, his lips brushing my hand.

“I didn’t admit it to myself until I was on the plane to LA, but I fell in love with you the moment we kissed, but I was a fucked up mess, and I didn’t deserve you. I couldn’t drag you down with me. I had to give you a real life without me, had to give you something so when we met again, you’d know I was ready for forever.”

“You’ve been my forever since I was eleven.” I drop to my knees in front of him.

He takes a deep breath and wetness shimmers in his intense gaze. “I love you, Rose, more than anything. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier. If you still want me, if you still want us, then I’m right here.”

My heart flies.

“Of course I still want you. I love you,” I whisper. “I can’t go on another single day without us together. I’m sorry for needing to hear those silly words. All we need is each other—”

He kisses me, cutting me off, his lips clinging to mine.

“Forever,” he says in my ear.

And it was . . .

A FEW YEARS LATER

Spider

“SIR, YOU CAN’T CARRY THAT on the plane.”

I arch my brow at the ticketing agent. She’s around fifty with a halo of blonde hair and bright pink lipstick. Normally, I can make any female do my bidding with my cocky grin and fancy English accent, but truth be told, I don’t try as hard as I used to.

“Indeed.”

She nods.

Her nametag says her name is Gwendolyn, and I smile, even though I’m beat from the three-month tour we just wrapped up in New York.

“Gwendolyn . . . may I call you Gwen?”

She blinks. “No.”

I’m not fazed. I lean in and prop my arms on the counter, giving her a great view of my muscled biceps in the short-sleeved Vital Rejects shirt I’m wearing. I’ve been working out daily, and I’m not ashamed to share my beautiful muscles with the world. “The truth is, I can’t live without Helene—that’s the name of my guitar.” I glance down at the case at my feet. “She’s been with me since the beginning of, well, everything, and it’s bad luck to travel without her. Plus, I’m utterly exhausted, and if I don’t have my guitar . . . I might be sad.”

The agent gives me a onceover, her eyes lingering on the sweptback hair, which is white this month. “Do I know you?”

I grin. “You like British rock stars?”

“Not especially.”

“Beautiful men with tattoos?” I twist my neck so she can see the spider.

Her nose turns up a notch. “Definitely not.”

I smirk. “How about gritty music with incredible guitar riffs?”

She compresses her lips. “Don’t want none of that stuff that makes my ears hurt. I listen to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.”

My eyes flare and I freeze—Dolly freaks me the hell out. Maybe it’s the hair, maybe it’s the boobs, but just the mention of her evokes mental images of her hiding behind a door or a shower curtain with a knife. I don’t know why. I can’t explain the fear; it just is.

“Need some help, baby?” Rose whispers from behind me, so close that her breath fans against the back of my neck. Just the sound of her voices relaxes me and makes me want to turn around and kiss her, but I have to focus. I’m determined to win this ticket agent over.